


Runaway

by amfiguree



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:06:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amfiguree/pseuds/amfiguree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memories just keep hitting him. There’s something that clings to him, in the entire room, from every corner, every object, every single angle of sunlight that wraps the place he practically grew up in in its warmth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Runaway

Sometimes the words come back to him, and he has to struggle to lift his head, tearing himself out of memories in which he wants no part.  
  
  
 _‘Don’t let him get away! There! There, you fools! Follow him!’  
  
The boy runs.   
  
Footsteps thud against the pavement, like the beating of his heart. Over and over and over, roaring in his ears. The commotion follows him, even as he puts his hands over his ears to block the noise out. He runs, tears already brimming in his eyes. His chest is heaving, and he can’t run much longer.  
  
He already feels like he’s going to trip over his own two feet. They’re so heavy. It feels like he’s not going to be able to move much longer.  
  
‘Follow him! Follow him! We can’t let him escape!’  
  
The boy is crying now. Tears fall from his eyes, unheeded, as he reaches to grope around the darkness ahead of him._  
  
  
Orlando shakes himself. He doesn’t want to be here, stuck in this old, grimy cabin where the memories just seem to keep surging back, over and over and over in his head, when he thought he’d been able to shake off their trail years ago.  
  
He stands, slowly, like an aged man, and leans his forehead against the cool wall in front of him. God, he thinks, I just want to go home.  
  
“Orlando?”  
  
He looks up, shocked, his hair bouncing at the sudden movement, and curling into his eyes. “Vi-Viggo?” he sounds breathless, although he hasn’t taken a single step towards the older man. “You’re. What are you doing here?”  
  
Viggo gives Orlando a strange smile, “This is _my_ house, kid.”  
  
“Oh. Oh, yes. I just.” Orlando stutters, not quite sure what to say. “I’m sorry. I’ll—”  
  
“You don’t have to go,” Viggo says gently, sitting down on his favorite couch; Orlando watches him with dark, brown eyes, nervous and unsure. “Tell me why you’re here.”  
  
It’s a demand, and Orlando knows it, although the calm – almost polite – tone in Viggo’s voice never changes.  
  
“I. Don’t know,” he says, finally, because he knows Viggo can tell when he’s lying.  
  
  
 _‘Stop that.’  
  
‘But, Sir, I—‘  
  
‘You have to learn how to lie, Orlando. If you don’t you’re not going to be able to escape. Do you understand?’  
  
The larger man’s voice is soft, but commanding, and the young boy nods, slowly, almost afraid.  
  
‘Now take your hands out of your pocket, look me in the eye, and tell me you’re not going to run away.’  
  
‘Yes, Sir. I’m not going to run away, Sir.’  
  
‘Are you being honest?’  
  
‘No, Sir.’  
  
‘Now are you being honest?’  
  
‘Yes, Sir.’  
  
‘No, boy.’ The man shakes his head, sitting slowly. ‘You cannot be honest. Not with me. Not at all. Not if you want to be able to live to see tomorrow.” The boy shakes his head, not quite comprehending, and there is a heavy sigh. “We’ll try again tomorrow.’_  
  
  
“I don’t know,” Orlando says again, at last. “I thought—”  
  
“Orlando.”  
  
There is a terse moment of silence, and then Orlando bows his head. Viggo clears his throat, and Orlando looks back up, eyes burning with an intensity that could scar; “I came to get my coat, Sir. I forgot it when I left.”  
  
Viggo is smiling, the corners of his lips are curved upwards in a smile, and Orlando feels a small leap of joy at the nod of approval he receives, even though it’s quickly quenched down with a breath of fury, and Orlando has to swallow to keep himself from screaming.  
  
Viggo looks at him a moment longer, and Orlando doesn’t drop his gaze. Defiantly, he stares back at the man, and tries not to shudder.  
  
  
 _‘Hold still, boy.’  
  
The small figure halts, suddenly, and a wave of panic washes over him as he struggles against the warm hand over his mouth, and another around his young body.  
  
‘Don’t move.’ The voice is by his ear now, and he stops resisting, suddenly, going quite limp in the strong arms surrounding him. ‘They’ll be gone soon.’  
  
The boy nods, shivering, cold and afraid. They wait a long while – it feels like all of eternity’s passed, before he’s released, and he stumbles forward, trying to regain his balance, before the stranger takes his hand, gently, and leads him to a small alleyway.   
  
‘Here, child, you’ll be safe here.’  
  
The boy looks up at the looming figure above him, and his eyes are big and brown and forlorn. The man shakes his head, and points at a door that seems to have materialized out of nowhere. ‘Come in. You’ll be safe here.’_  
  
  
Viggo nods to a seat, and Orlando scoots over, quickly, sitting down before his stomach churns even more, and makes him throw up over Viggo’s nice clean carpet. He hasn’t forgotten the pattern, the twists and curves of strings that never end and never really start, just carry on to the edges of the floor, where you can’t see the design anymore.  
  
It’s a nice carpet.  
  
  
 _The man touches his hand to the boy’s feverish forehead. ‘It’s all right,’ he says, comfortingly, and his voice drives away the bitter cold that’s been nibbling on the young one’s flesh all night. ‘Lay a while, and you’ll be all right.’  
  
He makes an attempt to scoop the boy into his arms, but a short cry of protest stills his movements. ‘I want... carpet. Carpet.’  
  
And then the boy is laid gently down again, and they both stare at the vivid red-and-purple hues that fan out across the floor, like the horizon in the early morning when no one is watching, when you feel like you own the world._  
  
  
The memories just keep hitting him. There’s something that clings to him, in the entire room, from every corner, every object, every single angle of sunlight that wraps the place he practically grew up in in its warmth.  
  
It’s almost as though they’re coming back for him, now, to make up for the years of lost time. But Orlando’s ready this time. He remembers what it was like, before – the fear, the uncertainty, the anguish.  
  
He doesn’t want to go back to that.  
  
Ever.  
  
  
 _‘Why are they chasing me?’ the boy’s jaw is still trembling, even after he’s been allowed to sit by the fire for an hour. ‘What do they want? I want to go home, Sir. Please. I just want to go home.’  
  
‘There’s no more home for you to go back to, Orlando.’ The man says his name, soothingly, and the boy is startled.  
  
‘But. But Sir, I don’t understand…’  
  
‘Not yet, boy. Not yet.’ The man takes another sip of his wine, and his frown deepens. ‘One day, I’ll tell you. One day when you’re old enough.’_  
  
  
Orlando has been ‘old enough’ for three years now. He’s nineteen. He wants to go back to when Viggo didn’t think he knew enough, because sitting here now, watching the man, wondering what he’s thinking, is torture.  
  
It frightens him more than he’d like to admit.  
  
“What are you thinking, Orlando?”  
  
The quiet words have an impact of a slap to the face. Orlando jumps, slightly, and he bites his lip as his cheeks start to color. “I. Nothing, sir.”  
  
“You’re stuttering.”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
Viggo scrutinizes him, then, and looks away when he is satisfied. Orlando hates the way his mouth is dry, and he has to lick his lips to make sure he doesn’t start choking over his words again.  
  
There is silence for a moment, and then Viggo says, “Why are you here, Orlando?”  
  
 _I want to come home to you, Viggo,_ Orlando is crying, in his head; he wants Viggo to see what he’s done, what he’s made Orlando become, he wants Viggo to need him, the way he’s come to need Viggo. _I gave everything to you. Let me come home, Viggo._  
  
“I.” Orlando lapses into silence, and he’s not even sure he’s the one speaking when he hears, “I want to come home.”  
  
“This isn’t your home.” For the first time since he’s arrived, Viggo’s voice is bitter. Orlando lets himself hope.  
  
“Why? Viggo, you know I want it to be.” Orlando is pleading now, very close to it.  
  
“No.” There is no explanation, and Orlando feels his chest tighten involuntarily, though he doesn’t breathe a word.  
  
  
 _‘Please, Sir. I’d only take an hour.’  
  
‘No, Orlando. Sit down.’  
  
‘But—‘  
  
‘I said no.’ the man raises his eyes, ‘they’re still looking for you. I’m not about to risk you getting killed to buy some ridiculous trifle!’ The boy shrinks back in fear, as his would-be guardian takes a deep breath, closing his eyes. When the man opens his eyes they’re clear, and empty, the way the boy remembers them. The man reaches out and the young boy goes to him, listening to his whisper, ‘You mean more to me than that.’_  
  
  
Orlando looks at the man who’s raised him, taught him everything he’s known, and then turned him out, and after a brief moment, Viggo asks, “how long have you been here, Orlando?”  
  
And Orlando understands that as his cue to leave. He fights not to tense, and lets his hands hang loosely by his side, as he makes a small bow of the head. “I was just going, Sir.”  
  
Viggo nods. Orlando takes in a deep, quiet breath, and heads for the door. His hand is on the knob, when he feels something inside of him break, and he looks back at Viggo. One last time.   
  
“Vig—” he’s cut off when Viggo throws him a sharp, unforgiving glance. “Sir, I.” There is a silenced moment of conflicting emotions, and when Orlando speaks again, his eyes are on the floor, “Please.”  
  
  
 _The man-boy stands, staring disbelievingly at the man he’s come to respect, to love. ‘You can’t do this. Sir, don’t do this.’_  
  
‘You’re old enough to go and build your own life now, boy. You must go.’  
  
‘But Sir.’  
  
‘No; it is not safe for you here any longer. I have taken care of you as best as I can for the past ten years, Orlando. Now you must go. And find your own place in the world.’  
  
The youngster’s eyes are filled with tears, and fear pales his cheeks. ‘Will I see you again, Sir?’  
  
‘No, Orlando. I don’t think you will.’  
  
The boy all but sobs at this, and he moves forward, arms outstretched in a helpless plea. ‘Sir, no, please sir. Don’t throw me out. Please.’  
  
‘Enough, boy.’ There is only tired resignation in the voice, nothing more. ‘It is settled. You must leave.’  
  
There is a hush, as the teenager struggles to quiet his tears. ‘All right,’ he whispers.  
  
‘Goodbye, Orlando.’  
  
  
“Goodbye, Orlando.” The same words shake Orlando out of his memory, and he has to fight to keep his composure.  
  
There is a finality in Viggo’s voice that makes Orlando nod, though at what he’s not sure. “All right,” he says, softly, like before, his voice hardly making it past the dam waiting to break in his throat. He’s not going to come ‘round here anymore. They both know it.  
  
The door opens, and Orlando stares into the bright sunshine, hesitating. He keeps his back straight, and never once looks back, and takes his first few steps out of his past.  
  
No one but himself hears the faint, “goodbye” as the door swings softly shut behind him.


End file.
